Lightly Baked
by frombluetored
Summary: "Are you seriously telling me that I invented the soufflé?" Clara and the Doctor do a little bonding and baking in 19th century France.


**A/n: **The plot bunny wouldn't leave so I had to indulge it. I hope you enjoy! This is post-TNoTD so be aware that there are possible light spoilers if you haven't seen the episode.

* * *

First off, the Doctor wanted it known that he never intended to arrive a day early.

It wasn't that he was _unable_ to wait to see her, or even that he missed her too much (so much that all the Jammie Dodgers in the world couldn't fill the hole). It was simply a matter of poor timing. Earliness, tardiness—it was all the same when you could travel throughout time as you please. No matter what you called it, their day was Wednesday, and as the console informed him, it was absolutely a Tuesday.

The Doctor paced in front of the door a few times and straightened his bowtie nervously. She'd say things if he came early, things like "miss me too much?" or "I told you so". She had bet him he couldn't wait an entire seven days like a normal person would, and he had informed her that he absolutely could wait seven days. She'd quirked up an eyebrow and curled her lips up into a mischievous smile and uttered the three words that bound him. "I dare you." ("No taksies backsies?" "No taksies backsies.")

Well, he'd made it six days. He wasn't even sure how. He was always tempted to cheat, and he had to admit that he almost did once. He went forward in time to Wednesday and was about to leave the TARDIS and head for her door, but then he remembered the self-assured look in her eyes as she declared that he wouldn't be able to, and he had turned right back around. He could already see her knowing look and her lips as she breathed: _"Look who's the boss after all". _Because Clara knew, Clara always knew, because she had seen it all. Every face, every fall, every triumph, every lie. And, remarkably, she cared about him despite. Remarkably, after only two weeks of recuperating with him on the TARDIS, she was able to swing back into her normal life and routine.

The Doctor sighed heavily.

"I could just skip forward one day, you know." He said out loud to his TARDIS. "I mean, maybe if I lied well enough, she wouldn't know."

But he knew she would, and he'd rather get teased than sit alone in this TARDIS one more day. He'd tried to travel alone and it was missing something; a spark, a warmth, excitement. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to being without her, should the time ever come.

It was those types of thoughts that spurred his exit from the TARDIS. He swallowed the lump in his throat and hurried to her door, eager to pull her small frame into a hug so he could reassure himself. Clara Oswald was alive. He'd saved her himself.

This lump didn't depart, however, because when he stepped onto the Maitland's front porch he could hear cries for help coming from inside.

"_No, please! Not again! Don't! Please! Stay away from me!"_

It was Clara's voice, and before the Doctor knew what was happening, he was slamming his shoulder hard into the door and forcing it open. It slammed back into the wall behind them making a sound that definitely indicated a dent, but the Doctor didn't care. He was haunted by the raw fear in Clara's voice and thought that, perhaps, he would be sick. He couldn't stand the sound, couldn't stand the thought of it, couldn't stand it to the point of physical sickness, and—what if she died here again?

He pulled his sonic screwdriver from his pocket and ran up the stairs three at a time, following Clara's screams. He burst into a bedroom he'd never been in before, sonic already blaring, prepared to save her again, and again, and again…only to stop dead in his tracks in confusion.

Angie and Artie were lying halfway on top of Clara, pinning her to the ground, and the two children were laughing hysterically. They seemed to laugh even harder when they saw the Doctor standing there, sonic thrust forth in the air, panting and practically in hysterics. Clara smiled up at the Doctor, her eyebrows lifted in surprise and question.

"Who's dying?" The Doctor demanded, and then he quickly turned about in a tight circle, scanning the entire room to make sure one of Clara's echoes wasn't somehow in the room dying with them. He ignored the children's laughter and yanked the closet door open. No echo Clara, only an avalanche of dirty clothing that had obviously been stashed there during a "room cleaning". He slammed the door shut and turned sharply on his heel, taking in the three on the ground below him. Clara's hair was spread out all around her like a halo, and her cheeks were flushed, but she was fighting back a large smile. He scanned her with his sonic and read the readings quickly. He felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders when it said all her vitals were normal, but he'd need to sniff her to really make sure. Really, he thought idly, taste was the best way to tell how something was but he wasn't sure she'd like it very much if he licked her face. Besides, she could take care of herself. Hadn't she proved that time and time again?

"No one's dying, Clara's been caught! We got her good!" Artie boasted. Angie laughed and lifted a hand off Clara's shoulder, meeting Artie's hand in a high five.

The Doctor caught on then. The children were roughhousing and Clara was playing along with them. No one was dying. He grimaced at them.

"Yes, well, you might want to try sounding less tragic! You never know when a Time Lord might pass by and think someone was in need of rescuing!" He huffed. He stared down at them for a few more seconds, his eyes narrowed, but then Artie and Angie began laughing even harder. He felt his hearts return to normal tempo and dared another look at Clara's face. She stared evenly at him, her eyes soft, and then turned her gaze on Artie and Angie. She wedged an arm out from underneath them and prodded their shoulders.

"Right, you lot, off me. You've won this round."

Artie and Angie exchanged a calculating look before both deciding to listen to their nanny's request. Artie and Angie stood up and Clara rose quickly after them.

"Tag is a child's game anyway." Angie scoffed. "But I still kicked your arse."

Clara pointed a finger at her. "Language!" She quickly turned to the Doctor then, and he couldn't help but brace himself in an apprehensive pleasure. "Isn't it Tuesday?"

It wasn't a question. It was blatant boasting. Angie and Artie watched the exchange, Angie with a smirk and Artie with interest.

"Yeah, it's definitely Tuesday, Clara's boyfriend." Artie spoke up helpfully.

The Doctor faltered.

"Well, it's a _Tuesday_ on Earth, but on Raxacoricofallapatorius it's _Soltunyzuranium_, so what is a Tuesday when you really think about it?" He laughed nervously and pulled at his bowtie. Clara took a few careful steps towards him and he gulped. When she rose up on her tip-toes and set her hands on his shoulders, he couldn't help but grin at her, because his hearts were warming.

"We're on Earth, and it's Tuesday, and _I'm the boss._" She sang. She winked and tapped the tip of his nose with her last words. The Doctor was left standing there with a mixture of a grin and a grimace as she turned from him and instructed the children on what homework needed to be done. Then she grabbed his hand with her small, soft one and began leading him from the room.

Once they were downstairs, she began emptying the dishwasher. The Doctor was almost surprised to find that, when she handed him a dish, he knew exactly which cabinet to put it in. He wasn't sure how many times he'd helped her with this, but it had to have been more than he had realized. Clara was the only companion who ever got him to do domestic, even a little bit, and he couldn't help but feel even more affection for her because of it.

As they unloaded, the Doctor spoke.

"I didn't want to wait until tomorrow." He admitted, because what was the use in lying? Both of their walls had all but exploded into a thousand pieces just as they had. The two weeks that Clara spent in his TARDIS with him were the two most intimate weeks he'd had in hundreds of years. She tossed and turned from nightmares, so he slept in her bed each night, holding her in his arms. He couldn't remember the last time he'd held someone while they slept or let them hold him in return. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a bed with another person in the first place. And when she awoke each morning, he was there to whisper and remind her that she was his Clara, his impossible girl, and that she was going to be all right. It took a few days, but she got better. She stopped waking in a fright and whispering _I don't know where I am_. They spoke of all the lifetimes they lived, of Gallifrey, of the Dalek Asylum, of Victorian London, and hundreds of other places that were both intimately and vaguely remembered. Clara, for her part, only remembered scraps from each of her lives. But scraps were enough when Clara woke up one morning, turned to him, and said: _"At sunset, the trees looked like they were burning because of the silver leaves." _

He had shared almost everything with her, and because of that, he knew it was only a short amount of time until he ended up sharing his true feelings about her.

Her back was to him, but he could tell she was smiling. She turned a bit and passed him a glass, her lips still upturned in a smile.

"Well, I didn't want to either." She said. No jest, no _I told you so_, no _down boy!_ The Doctor didn't know whether to look at her in shock or kiss her. He was momentarily shocked by his own impulse (even though he felt it often in her presence) and he hurriedly turned his back and walked over to the cabinet with the glasses to free himself from her blazing eyes.

"I want to take you somewhere nice." He declared suddenly, once he turned back around to face her. She halted, her hand still extended with a china plate held almost loosely in her grasp. The Doctor took it from her in order to give himself something to do.

"You mean a place where we won't almost get our heads blown off? Where we could spend time alone in peace?" She guessed teasingly. When he looked back at her, she lifted her eyebrows almost suggestively. "I like the sound of that."

He blushed and quickly shook a finger in her direction.

"Don't get any inappropriate ideas Clara, I simply mean some place relatively safe, at least safe in your human terms. Some place that you want to go." He amended. She pulled the last dish free and stood up on her tip toes, stretching to reach the top shelf in the cabinet above the dish washer. The Doctor stared at the skin of her lower back that was consequently exposed for a moment or two before he finally realized that maybe she could use his help. He hurried over and plucked the bowl from her hands, easily placing it where it belonged.

Clara lowered to her feet and then knocked her shoulder into his.

"I saw that, Dr. Wandering Eyes. And my secret is that I always have inappropriate ideas."

The scary thing was that, lately, the Doctor did too. He examined her eyes for a moment, and without meaning to, he remembered how panicked her voice sounded this morning when he was on the stoop. He reached up and gently cradled her face in his hands, that terrible lump back. Her eyes softened, all teasing gone, and she offered him a small smile that he greedily accepted. When he pressed his lips to the smooth skin of her forehead, he was utterly delighted by how warm her skin was, how alive.

"I was scared when I heard you yelling." He admitted when he pulled back. He didn't let go of her face, though. He rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment.

"I know." She said. She looked back at him. "It was just a bit of fun, I didn't know you were outside."

"I know." He echoed. He didn't say his next words, because he didn't need to. He knew she knew that he still had nightmares about the sight of her jumping his time stream. He still had nightmares about how broken she sounded when he found her, huddled on the ground.

She lifted her hands and rested them over his momentarily, and then she was pulling them from her face and taking his left in her right. She gave him a gentle tug.

"Come on, let's grab my bag and go somewhere that fits the human definition of safe." She suggested. "But just this once; I don't want to make a habit of it. Might get boring. Might miss the danger." He grinned at her. She continued. "And I have to be back on time this time, and I mean Earth time, not Raxacor—whatever time."

The Doctor followed after her, a grin expanding across his face.

"Your bag? You've already packed your bag?" He asked gleefully. Clara turned and began climbing the stairs backwards for the sake of winking at him.

"I knew you wouldn't make it until tomorrow." She lied. "And I figured you wouldn't cheat."

The Doctor clapped his hands together happily.

"Likely story! You missed me, too!" He exclaimed.

She stopped at the top of the stairs and her eyes were dancing mischievously. She'd gotten him somehow, although he wasn't sure how.

"Too?" She challenged.

It wasn't until she was walking back down the stairs with her bag that he realized his mistake. Oh well. No use even denying it.

* * *

Once they were aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor was happy as could be. He spun around the console and then came to a stop next to Clara. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his side, grinning broadly.

He patted the TARDIS. "Got my TARDIS," he squeezed Clara to him in a hug, "got my Clara…the galaxies are good!"

The TARDIS gave a sudden lurch that made Clara grip the Doctor closer in surprise.

"I don't think she likes you referring to her in the same sentence as me," Clara warned. The Doctor waved his hands.

"Fish fingers and custard! She likes you a lot better now. She's just jealous that you've, technically, known me longer than she has." He explained.

Clara appeared skeptical, but she didn't say anything else about it.

"Now…where to?" The Doctor mumbled to himself. He paced and thought, until finally, it occurred to him. He grinned as he set in the coordinates and then pulled Clara back against his side.

"You're going to love it!" He gushed.

* * *

He was wrong.

"Paris, France! The lovely 1830s!" He declared happily as they stepped out of the TARDIS. Clara was wearing her weight in heavy silk, a traditional Parisian getup for women in the 19th century. The Doctor glanced her over as she scanned her surroundings and wondered how she could even breathe underneath the corset or walk with all the skirts. It didn't look bad at all, though, and so he decided to enjoy the aesthetics.

"Right, lovely! Nothing is higher on the human safety scale than cholera!" Clara replied.

The Doctor frowned.

"It's not that time already, is it?" He checked his fob watch, forgetting that it doesn't actually tell time. He sighed. "Cholera! It always sneaks up on me."

"You and about a thousand other people. I hated history and even I know this isn't a great time to be here. Let's go somewhere else. Or at least some _time_ else." Clara responded. She turned, the heavy hoop of her skirt nearly knocking the Doctor over as she brushed against him, and tried to pull open the TARDIS doors. She yanked a few times in futile before the Doctor sighed heavily. He set a palm on the blue doors.

"Really, this has got to stop! I just want you two to get along! I don't get it, I thought you were better?!" He complained. Clara moved out of the way and gestured for him to do it. She crossed her arms over her chest.

The Doctor hurried over and pulled at the doors. Nothing. He tried pushing them, as the TARDIS had instructed him to do a number of years ago. Nothing. He frowned and rubbed a hand down the wooden panel.

"Aw, now dear, I didn't hurt your feelings did I?" He asked in concern.

"Uh, Doctor?" He heard Clara ask.

He continued stroking the TARDIS.

"Don't be like that, we can talk about this later, all three of us. Just let me in." He pleaded. He tried to pull the doors open again.

"Doctor?" Clara tried again, her voice tenser this time.

"Really, Sexy!" He grumbled. He sighed in resignation and turned back around. When he glanced at Clara, she was looking a little frightened.

"Clara?" He asked in concerned.

He followed her line of sight. He noticed a man headed in their direction who, to put it lightly, didn't look so good. His skin was pale and almost gray hued and he looked liable to vomit at any moment. He felt Clara grab his arm.

"They wouldn't just let someone with cholera roam the streets," he assured her, but he wasn't that assured himself. "Besides, it's spread through the food and water, not by people so to speak. You know, they called it the "blue death" sporadically because their skin would turn…a blue-gray hue." He stopped uneasily. "Well, like I said, everything's fine, but perhaps we should go to a different time after all."

He turned back around and began tugging hard on the TARDIS doors. But no matter what he did, she didn't budge. He finally threw his hands up at the sky.

"Fine, Sexy! Fine! You win!" He shot a glare at her and then quickly took Clara's (alarmingly human) hand in his.

"Let's find a place to hole up."

She didn't protest. In fact, she clung to his side and practically crawled inside his suit jacket with him. He watched her from the corner of his eye, concerned. It occurred to him how scary it must be to a human. He couldn't imagine being so fragile that even a brush with a disease could cause so much damage. Not to mention how many diseases there were out there that harmed humans. He tightened the arm that was around her shoulders.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were holed up in one of the cottages behind one of the finest and most luxurious mansions in Paris. The Doctor had waved his psychic paper at the gatekeeper and was given the key to the cottage. Once inside, he made Clara wait at the door and "breathe shallowly" as he roamed around the cottage, alternatively sniffing, licking, and scanning almost every object and surface he came in contact with. Just to be safe. Ten minutes later, he returned to Clara with a smile.

"It's perfectly safe! We'll hide here."

Clara fell back onto the couch and sighed.

"Until?" She challenged.

"Until the TARDIS decides to let us in, of course!" He responded. He walked over to the golden sofa and fell back with a pleased sigh. "They just don't make furniture like this anymore."

He tried to hide his alarm when Clara plopped down beside him and very promptly began untying her corset top.

"What are you doing?" He asked her, blushing and making a point to look anywhere but at her chest.

"Relax, chin boy, I'm just loosening it. I hope the old cow gets her act together because I don't look forward to trying to sleep in this." She responded. She shifted uncomfortably.

"You can always wear a sheet," the Doctor suggested innocently.

She propped her feet up on the coffee table.

"In your dreams."

He shrugged, obviously agreeing with her statement, before even realizing it. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes as wide as the twin moons of Gallifrey. Clara's were twinkling.

"I'm starting to think the TARDIS was simply acting as a wingman." She joked. "What, dump human Clara in cholera-ridden France and get her alone in a cottage with nothing to wear but an uncomfortable gown?"

The Doctor gulped. She ran a finger down the bridge of his nose, her smile so wide the corners of her eyes were crinkling.

"Naughty." She teased, and the Doctor was torn for a moment, caught between pressing his lips to hers and flailing and denying everything. He chose the latter, as it was more his nature. "Next thing you know you'll need to check me for cholera, too." She teased.

The Doctor hadn't even thought of that. He looked at her seriously.

"Do you think I should? Just to be safe?"

"Maybe later."

He grinned at her and she grinned back. He was a little unsure whether or not they were still joking, but regardless, he was glad to be there with his Clara.

* * *

That night, she lost all patience.

"Who invented this thing?" She demanded, tugging at the ties of the corset even more aggressively. "Tell me their name and coordinates so I can go back in time and yell at them!"

The Doctor began rambling on and on about the history of corsets. That was until Clara pulled the strings completely loose and then held her left hand out to him, her right clutching the corset closed.

"I need your shirt."

The Doctor frowned, thinking it over.

"Not my bowtie though, right?" He asked in concern.

She stopped for a moment, her frustrated expression melting to give way to a smile that made him grin back. It was so soft and sudden and he thought to himself suddenly that he really loved Clara Oswald. The thought scared him so much he almost choked himself in his haste to get his shirt off his body.

He tried not to find the sight of Clara in his shirt attractive, but it was difficult not to. He found it endearing how it reached all the way past her bottom on her when it was just a shirt on him. She finished buttoning it and then looked up at him, gauging his expression.

"What?" She asked.

"Nothing." He responded. But he couldn't stop smiling at her.

* * *

Later that night, when they were curled up on the sofa with some old French novel of some sort, Clara's fingers danced up the Doctor's bare chest. He had put his tweed back on, but he still felt exposed, and that feeling only multiplied when he felt her fingers against his skin. She caressed almost mindlessly over the expanse of skin, her hands disappearing underneath the jacket and then reappearing, her eyes thoughtfully trained on the book the entire time. The Doctor was reading it out loud to her (thankfully the TARDIS translation was still working, which meant she hadn't disappeared or gone further) and it took all his concentration to keep his voice unaffected.

He dropped the book and caught her hand in his when her fingers began untying his bowtie.

"Oh no you don't!" He declared. She looked up at him, and he down at her, and she blinked her eyes in innocent confusion.

"What?" She asked, like she wasn't even aware of what she was doing. Her eyes were so large and truthful that the Doctor floundered for a moment. Long enough for her small fingers to push underneath his grasp and pull his bow tie from his neck.

"I just love undressing you, Doctor," she said, and the Doctor blushed at that. He watched as she examined it, feeling warm inside again. He just wanted to hug her, but he figured she'd probably had enough of being squeezed today. She looked back up at him.

"I'll let you borrow my skirts if I can borrow this."

He eyed the mass of fabric that was puddled in the corner of the room.

"That's okay." He said. She grinned and began pulling her hair up. She tied it back with his bow tie and didn't even seem surprised when he pulled her down against his chest and pressed a kiss into her hair. He kept his face pressed there, his hearts swelling, and was helpless. He had to admit something or he'd explode.

"I'm extremely fond of you, Clara Oswald."

She slid her hands underneath the tweed and wrapped her arms around his middle. He could feel her heartbeat against his stomach and it made him feel safe.

"I'm extremely fond of you, too." She told him.

There was so much he wanted to add, things he'd already said, some wordlessly and some in too many words. Things like: _I am so glad you didn't die, I am so glad you saved me, I am so glad to be alive for the first time in a very long time and it's because of you. _

He kissed the top of her head against instead, because they had known each other long and well enough now to speak their own language.

* * *

The Doctor woke pleasantly the next morning. He was aware of Clara the minute he gained even the slightest consciousness and smiled immediately. He could feel her in the bed beside him. He thought about rolling over and pulling her into his arms, but he only did that when she was having a nightmare. He wasn't sure if it was okay to do that any other time.

She beat him to it, though. He heard her murmur _"Doctor"_ sleepily, and then she was curling up to his side. He cradled her to him gratefully, always grateful to the universe for putting her there. She slept for a little while longer (humans were always so lucky to be able to sleep so much), and when she woke, she had a request almost immediately.

"I want to make a soufflé." She declared.

The Doctor grinned.

"Good morning, Soufflé Girl." He responded.

"I'll need eggs, milk, flour, butter…" she continued trilling off ingredients as the Doctor stared at her. He examined the slight flush to her cheeks from being asleep, the pinkness of her lips, the determination in her eyes, and found himself wondering if this was what being full-time domestic would be like. It was almost painful to admit it to himself, but he didn't think full-time domestic would be bad at all if that were the case.

She fished around the sheets for a moment after she finished talking. When she found what she was looking for, she turned back to the doctor and tied his bowtie around his neck for him. When she dropped her hands, she offered him a smile.

"Would you go get it for me? I have a feeling about it. This is the day. This is the day I will make my soufflé."

The hope in her eyes was too sweet to ignore. And that was the reason the Doctor spent the next hour hunting down safe food in Paris. Each thing he purchased had to be tested thoroughly before he'd even let himself bring it into the cottage. Once it passed his sniff, lick, scan tests, he carried it all back to the cottage, pleased with himself.

When he arrived, Clara was a sight to behold. She was preparing her workstation in the kitchen, her movements a flurry of excitement.

"I'm going to do it this time, Doctor!" She told him.

He set the ingredients on the counter and smiled at her.

"I believe in you." He told her. "Once it was you and soufflés against the Daleks. I believe you and your soufflés can do anything." He said.

Clara went blank for a moment, as she often did when one of her past lives was brought up. She stared at the wall for a few moments and the Doctor instantly felt guilty. He knew that, if the death was particularly painful, it was one of the first things she remembered. He took a step forward and set a hand on her shoulder.

"You're my beautiful human Clara." He told her.

She looked up at him and smiled.

* * *

As Clara cooked, she hummed dozens of different songs, half of which the Doctor knew didn't even belong to this planet. He watched her with interest and enjoyment, stepping in every now and then to hold this or that for her. She sat beside him and watched the oven confidently as it cooked.

When the timer went off, she was less confident. She hesitated a moment, staring at the oven. When she finally stood, she seemed incapable of moving. She bit her bottom lip nervously. The Doctor couldn't help himself; he reached forward and swatted at her bottom playfully.

"Go get your soufflé, Soufflé Girl!"

It brought her back to Earth. She hurried over and pulled with oven open with renewed surety, and the Doctor couldn't look at anything but her face. When it broke out in a huge, radiant smile, he jumped into the air and let out a cry of joy.

"Yeah!" He celebrated.

Clara leaned over and, with a rag protecting her hands, carefully pulled her perfect soufflé from the oven. She stared at it in shock for a few long moments, long enough to forget the mold was hot. The heat traveled through the rag and she let out a sharp gasp of pain. The Doctor saw it happen before it actually did: Clara retreating her burned hand, the perfect soufflé falling slow motion to the floor, the bits of soufflé flying throughout the air. He darted out of his chair and grabbed it from her right as her fingers began to release it. He didn't even feel the heat as he carefully and slowly transported it to the stove.

Clara's attention shifted instantly.

"Doctor!" She scolded. She grabbed his hands and brought them to her lips, pressing kisses to his palms, even though they were barely red. His hearts did that swelling thing again and all he could do was smile dumbly at her. She kept his hands cradled in hers as she turned to look back at her soufflé. She stared at it, an almost childish smile on her face, and then she hurried over to the table and grabbed the backs of two of the chairs. She dragged them across the floor and set them in front of the stove. The Doctor watched in affectionate amusement as she sat down in one of them, never taking her eyes off her soufflé. The Doctor sat down beside her, and that's where they stayed for a full five minutes. Clara admired her soufflé with a look of utmost wonder and pride, and the Doctor had inkling he was watching her the same way.

It took them a long time to convince themselves to eat it. When they finally did, Clara started crying, leaving the Doctor alarmed. He dropped his fork immediately, fully prepared to somehow pull the soufflé from his stomach, but Clara shook her head quickly. She wiped at her tears and explained herself.

"It's silly. It's just…this is the first successful soufflé I've made without my mother."

The Doctor scooted his chair closer and held her. He wanted to cry with her, and while she had her face buried into his jacket, he let himself. Just a little. Because something about this woman did things to his hearts.

She was composed only a few minutes later.

"I'm silly," she said. She picked her fork back up.

The Doctor couldn't stop the words.

"You're perfect." He said.

She smiled as she finished her bit of soufflé.

* * *

They weren't expecting visitors, least of all French visitors. It turned out the owner of the mansion wanted to have a word with King Charles X's long lost brother. The owner, a well-to-do woman, was holed up on the grounds with her family and equally bored.

Clara was missing for most of the visit, as she had been in the bathroom trying to fight her way back into her appropriate attire. When she finally walked out of the bathroom, dressed in the gown once more, she headed towards the kitchen where she could hear the Doctor and the woman talking about some artist or another.

When she entered, she saw them sitting at the table, small portions of soufflé on their plates. Since the first soufflé, Clara had had nothing but success with them. The woman grinned when Clara walked in.

"Here's the Mrs. Smith I've just been hearing splendid things about!" She exclaimed. Clara glanced briefly at the Doctor and smirked. Mrs. Smith indeed. She couldn't help but wonder what things the woman was referring to. "I just have to hear about this delicious creation of yours! How in the world did you make it? What did you make it with?"

Clara stared at her, her eyes widening ever so slightly as she glanced down at the soufflé.

"Oh my stars," she whispered, when she realized what was going on. She saw the Doctor hiding an elated grin behind his mug. She looked back at the woman.

"...It's called a soufflé."

She spent the next few minutes explaining the soufflé to this woman. Once she was gone, Clara turned to the Doctor.

"Are you seriously telling me that I invented the soufflé?" She demanded.

The Doctor smiled at her. He took her face in his hands and kissed her nose. Clara let her eyes drift shut briefly as love and security enveloped her. It was always what she felt when he was around.

"Who better to invent it than Soufflé Girl?" He challenged.

"Oh, I don't know, the man who actually invented it?"

"You're definitely not of the male persuasion."

She leaned back against the counter, turning her gaze to the remaining soufflé. She let out a gust of air.

"Oh my stars," she repeated, more to herself than anything. "I invented the soufflé. I invented the soufflé, and it took me a thousand lives to get it right. How pathetic!"

He smiled at her and took her hands.

"No, how brave. A famous chef was once quoted saying that it takes both incredible optimism and strength to bake a soufflé. Imagine how much strength and optimism it took to have the bravery to keep at it, no matter how many times it didn't turn out the way you wanted."

She smiled.

"Why do I have a feeling this famous chef was somehow you?" She challenged.

He grinned. "You know me too well."

"And not enough." She countered.

He hugged her tightly and admitted to her the truth that terrified him every day.

"Soon, that will change." He promised her.

She was quiet for a few moments. She stayed in his arms.

"Thank you for helping me become Soufflé Girl."

"It's all in the recipe." He quoted with a smile.

* * *

When they tried the TARDIS again the next day, she let them in without complaint.

"Maybe she just wanted to lock you out until you perfected your soufflés. Probably got sick of the smoke." The Doctor reasoned.

Clara looked up at the ceiling of the console room and offered her a smile. Even though she wasn't entirely convinced she wasn't trying to get her infected with cholera, she appreciated the help.

"Thanks, Sexy." She said, more joking than anything, but the next thing she knew the Doctor was laughing and hugging her and the TARDIS was making a sound almost like a purr.

* * *

"I'm Clara Oswald," she said to herself a little later, her feet propped up on the railing. "I'm the boss and I invented the soufflé."

The Doctor listened from the other side of the console, a smile on his face. He was glad braveheart Clara was figuring herself out again. Even if it took a few days of living domestically.


End file.
